The Queen of Death
by Pikdude
Summary: Washed up on the shores of Wraeclast, a young witch must find help in unlikely places to realize her destiny- as the Queen of Death. Rated T for violence and a dark element.
1. Chapter 1: Castaway

The elements are my allies. The dead are my servants. And fear… Fear will be my closest friend.

My name is Chatechi, and I am an Exile.

* * *

The witch was the worst of the worst. Dabblers of black magic and necromancy, raising the dead and casting curses on innocent, good people. They represented the darkness, the slime in the corners of the sewers, evil itself incarnated.

Such are the thoughts of the common. They distrust magic and usually blame all of their problems on it. As such, practitioners of magic- whether witch or warlock- are blamed for any and all troubles. In her previous life, the witch had been accused of causing droughts, mad cow disease, storms, illness, a nasty rash and turning someone into a newt, who claimed that he had "gotten better."

In reality, the witch is a child born knowing they have this dark power and possessed of a natural inclination to practice it. Once a witch is discovered, it doesn't take long before she is immediately persecuted for her "crimes." It is true, they are occasionally responsible for some minor flood or landslide, but these events are few and far between and unnecessarily exaggerated until suddenly one dog dying of a fever is reported quite seriously as "a massive epidemic."

Is the dark, mistrusting witch really a monster of untold proportions? It is up to you, dear reader, to decide over the course of this narrative. In it is told the quite factual and precise story of a witch who found herself marooned in a land of darkness and despair- Wraeclast. A land where the dead rise on their own, where cannibals and necromancers are more plentiful than the ordinary people. Where one can meet their death swifter than any other place. For centuries, it has been the pleasure of the King to exile criminals there, laughing as he told them of the "great chance at a new life" they had in the untamed land. Most of them meet their death within minutes of arriving.

So what chance did this twisted, perverse child have in a land such as this?

* * *

Cold.

That was the first impression Chatechi had of Wraeclast. It was cold. True, she was imprisoned in the deck of a ship, in an area that had no heating whatsoever. After all, why waste the fuel warming some mangy prisoners? It was also wet. Very damp and wet. Chatechi was used to being wet- indeed, as a witch she'd often been forced to live in damp caves for weeks at a time. But this damp was another sort of damp entirely. It sank into her bones, chilled her very soul. It also didn't help the whole cold situation. She sat in the back of her cell, huddled for warmth. Her raven dark hair hung limply and felt slimy against her skin. She closed her eyes and muttered something- and flames sparked into life on her palm. She held this warming fire close to her chest, taking comfort in its little warmth. The other occupants of her cell- some pirates, she thought- edged away from her uneasily. She didn't care. More fire for her. Across the room languished more pirates and a strange, gray-bearded man who clutched to his staff as if it were his lifeline. The staff was very distinctive; it was constructed of ebony wood from top to bottom and adorned with a large, ornamental cross. He looked apprehensive, and yet there was a strange calmness in his gaze, as if he knew he was going to be alright. She knew that look well, because she had the same one. All these others were simply more corpses to bloody the shoreline of Wraeclast. She would use them to raise her army.

"Prisoners!" Came a bellow from on high, and the shadowy, heavily cloaked form of a guard loomed over them. Keys clinked as he drew them from within his cloak somewhere, unlocking the cage. "Alight, move upstairs you worthless piles of dung! Time to go to your new home!" Chatechi ended up beside the old man as the prisoners slowly lined up to trudge to the upper deck. The man looked at her.

"Witch." His voice was not accusatory; nor was it condemning. It was a simple, emotionless statement of fact. "My brothers and I hunted down many of your kind." She realized what he was now- A Templar. So called holy warriors that made a sport of killing witches and any creature deemed unholy. She smiled, the smile cold and displaying her ever so slightly pointed teeth.

"And many of your brothers met their deaths at my hands, old man." He did not react in fear as she had hoped, but rather nodded sadly.

"Death accompanies us all," he said. "It is the route to divinity."

"Your faith is a crutch. It will fail you someday." She spat the words out, filling them with all the bitterness she could muster.

"Perhaps," came the cool reply. "But at least I believe in something, witch. What do you believe in?" They faced the raging sea now. One by one, under prodding from the guards, they were ordered to leap from the deck of the ship into the roiling waves. A dark shape squatted in the distance, tantalizingly near and yet impossibly far. Rain pelted her face and lighting flashed. Her hair swayed, dank and limp in the wind, casting her face into frightful shadows. Her eyes were hard and unworldly. Finally it was her turn, and she turned to the Templar.

"I believe in myself." She stepped over the edge and plummeted into the water.

She awoke on a beach, sprawled where the waves had thrown her. The sand cut and bit into her skin. The wind beat mercilessly on her, the chill cutting into her and stealing what little warmth she had. Coughing up water, the witch managed to rise to her knees and draw a shuddering breath, casting her gaze about her to learn what she could. In front of her was more beach and a cliff face, almost certainly unclimbable. To her left were the ruins of some boat or another, and to her right the coast stretched into the distance. She fancied she could see a twinkling light in the distance.

"Alive, are ye?" The voice, rough and hoarse, came from a pirate whose shirt was stained with blood. He sat propped up against the boat. He coughed, blood flowing out of his mouth and onto his shirt. He laughed weakly. "Better than this guy, eh?" He said, jerking a thumb towards the corpse lying next to him on the shore. As he chuckled at his joke, the corpse rolled over and bit out his throat. His laugh died away to a gurgle, and the pirate died with a surprised look on his face. The corpse dug into the fresh body, but the witch had much experience with undead and knew that wouldn't last long. It already took notice of her, shambling to its feet and beginning to lurch towards her. She scrabbled back from it, reaching back for something, anything- there! She gripped the peace of wood she found and pointed it at the corpse, yelling something. A blast of energy rippled from the tip, and tore apart the oncoming corpse. Chatechi released a shaky breath and looked more closely at the piece of wood she held. Then she laughed, not caring who or what heard. It was a wand. _A wand!_

She rose to her feet, grinning savagely. The wand was a simple one that looked like it had been carved from driftwood, but it was a wand nonetheless. It had three sockets in its handle- red, blue and green- but only the blue one was filled. Experimentally, she tapped the gem and a fireball sprouted in her hands. Curious, she lobbed the fireball a good distance from her and watched in glee as it detonated. Now this, this would be useful. She heard a low moan and turned to see a horde of undead beginning to rise from where they had fallen in the sand and surf. The Witch giggled. "Silly undead," She said smugly, lobbing fireballs into the crowd of corpses. They went up like torches. The fire jumped and spread from dead to dead; before long they resembled nothing more than a slowly moving forest of flaming, screaming trees. She pirouetted, waving the wand and sending blasts of magic into them, dispatching them one by one, all the while with that unnerving grin on her face. Her small, slightly pointed teeth gleamed in the light of the burning corpses. She paused and took a bow- more than a dozen ex-undead lay burning on the surf. The tide came in, the waves dousing some fires and bearing still-flaming corpses out into the ocean.

The Witch searched their bodies for anything useful. She found one corpse, heavily burned, wearing robes of some sort. In them she found another gem, and another wand. She slotted the gem into the second wand and held it- this one, she knew what did instantly. "Rise," she commanded, and a corpse slowly climbed to its feet, ready to serve her. "Rise!" She commanded again, and another rose. "RISE!" She cried out, spreading her arms wide. The multitude of bodies twitched- but only one rose. Chatechi frowned. Only three minions? That was slightly disappointing. She shrugged and decided to mull over it later. For now, the lights of fires twinkled on the horizon. She began walking that way, her horrors forming an honor guard around her. She liked that. She was the Princess- no, the Queen. The Queen of Death.

The Queen of Death, caught up in her newly found name, failed to notice the pair of eyes that followed her progress from a bush- or the large, shadowy form that followed them.

**Hello, reader! Just a friendly note to help clear up a few things. Chatechi is pronounced Cat-e-kai. She IS a real character in PoE that I AM playing at the moment, and I'm basing the story on her exploits. If you play PoE and wish to be a part of the project, my in-game moniker is Pikdude. Contact me at your own risk- the Queen of Death is fickle in her element.**

**And yes, she is dual wielding wands. Badass, right?**


	2. Chapter 2: Royal Sins

The shoreline was bleak, rocky, and dotted with undead.

"My kind of place," Chatechi commented to one of her minions. It didn't respond. She sighed. Terribly useful, minions; but also terribly boring. Still, what need had she of a companion? None whatsoever. It was the normal people who'd burned down her home. No, she had no need for anyone but herself. She'd learned that the hard way. "Can't trust anybody but yourself," She remarked aloud to another minion, who appeared to nod sagely as he shambled along just before he swiped at a passing… Thing, ripping the flesh from it and stuffing it into its mouth hungrily. Chatechi aimed the occasional fireball at whatever her minions didn't kill and eat.

The witch paused in her step as a horrible, deep roar echoed across the beach. It was followed by a piercing shriek, made unworldly by some mysterious tenor or warble to the sound. The witch knew that sound well. Someone, somewhere had just met a painful death. Good. More bodies for her army. She continued on albeit more carefully. Eventually she rounded yet another ruined structure to see what was undoubtedly the largest undead she'd ever seen. It was easily ten feet tall and massive, its rotting and bloated skin a pale blue from the cold. A group of figures darted around the beast, striking where they could but not bringing it down. It roared, swinging a massive arm tipped with ragged, broken nails that sliced through the victim's flesh. Another body. Superb. Bodies already littered the ground around the thing.

Finally, a woman darted forward. She was clad lightly in leather armor and held a bow in her sculpted arms. Her eyes were a hard, piercing green and she wore her blonde hair in a pixie cut. She drew the bowstring back and fired, sending an arrow straight into the creature's eye. It staggered but didn't go down- and then the arrow exploded, and horribly warm pieces of its head rained down on the beach. A fine mist of blood covered everything. The Witch savored the feeling.

The victors gathered up their dead, driving weapons into their brains before carrying them off to burn or bury them. Chatechi walked out into the clearing, inspecting the body of the enormous ex-undead creature. She tapped her chin thoughtfully with pale, slender fingers. Was it even possible…? She set about walking around the edge of the creature, waving her wand over it and muttering arcane phrases. When she was done, she stood back, shouting "Rise, my creation!"

Nothing happened. She stood still for a minute. Still nothing. She stomped over to the creature, commanding it once again in a shrill voice. It didn't obey. She screamed at the sky in a rather childish fit of anger, stomping her feet and shouting curses. She delivered a vicious kick to the creature and turned her back on it.

And then she was flying through the air with a sharp pain in her back. _Oh, bother,_ she thought. _It was a delayed spell._ And then she hit the ground, and pain exploded throughout her. She pried her eyes open- she had to see what was going on. Her three horrors were standing next to her while the big thing she had resurrected stood where she had left it. "Kill," she croaked to her minions, and they stumbled off. The big one began to move too. She began to cough up blood- her blood. It was a strange experience to have her own blood on her as opposed to someone else's. She didn't really like it. Glancing up, she saw her little horde begin to batter on the walls of the encampment just beyond. She tried to speak, but her words were drowned by blood. Lord, there was a lot of it. Was she dying?

She pulled herself to her feet, shuddering terribly. Screams rose up from the encampment. No point calling back her minions now- not even their creator could stop them in the middle of a blood frenzy. Those people might have helped her- but then again, they might have been like all the other people she'd ever known. Vicious and bloodthirsty, the lot of them. And they called her a monster. She smiled as they died, her teeth stained red with her own blood.

"What have you done!?" A deep voice broke across her self-satisfaction. She looked up to see a huge black man. His eyes were white and one had a scar across it. The partial plate armor he wore did little to cover the massive expanse of his chest. His biceps were bigger than Chatechi's head. Clutched in his hands was a massive stone hammer, the crushing part painted red with gore.

"Nothing," she said as sweetly as she could. Perhaps this idiot savage would mistake her for a mere child. He sighed, turning and then suddenly swinging his fist into her face. Her nose crunched and she went under with a surprised squawk. _Maybe not,_ She lamented dazedly. The brute dragged her across the sand- the sharp, hard, cold sand, that cut into her back and rubbed into her wounds- and shoved her against something hard. It felt a bit like a wall.

"Look!" He commanded, and she did. Her vision was blurry but she could make out the huge, shambling form of her creation swinging his massive fists against a backdrop of a burning building. People lay dead and dying everywhere, often with bloody chunks torn out of them and what looked suspiciously like teeth marks. She grinned.

"Looks like my kind of town." The brute narrowed his eyes at her and snorted in disgust. He picked up a length of rope and picked her up bodily, tying her upside down to a pole before leaving. Chatechi struggled uselessly against her bonds, but the knots were tied cruelly tight. Finally she just hung there, giggling like a little girl and singing twisted versions of nursery rhymes.

_Here comes a candle to light you to bed,_

_And here comes a chopper to chop off your head!_

_Chip chop, chip chop, the last one is dead!_

As she sang the last line she broke into harsh, cold laughter, immediately replaced by a coughing fit which vomited more blood onto her already stained clothes. Vomiting was a thoroughly unpleasant experience when one was upside down, she decided. Eventually she could breathe again, and looked up into the grim faces of the most ragtag group she'd ever seen. There was the huge, ebony-skinned Marauder; that blonde pixie-haired bow-girl; another woman she didn't recognize; a pirate who swayed on his feet as if drunk and smelled like a fish that had died; another white man almost as buff as the marauder and finally, a dark haired man whose slender appearance and sword at his waist led her to believe he was a duelist.

"Hello, boys and girls," She taunted, giving them all a wide grin. "Pleasant day?" Her jibe was met with scowls all around.

"I say we kill her," The duelist said firmly, his accent sounding haughty. He twirled his sword around, its blade flashing in the light from the ruins of a makeshift building. "One little jab ought to do it." He stabbed the blade towards her, stopping just short of spearing her through the heart. The second girl, the only one not wielding a weapon of some kind, passed a hand over her face as if troubled.

"No." Her voice was soft and sad. "No more death today." She shuddered, and then looked up into the Witch's cold blue eyes. "Do you know how many we lost because of Hillock?" She asked quietly, the devastation reflected in her gaze. "More than a dozen dead, more fatally injured…" She trailed off, swallowing and rubbing her temples. The large white fighter man stepped forward.

"Come, Yeena," He said gently. "Let's get a fire started and save who we can." The Witch, seeing a possible escape, was quick to speak.

"I could help with that." The expressions on everyone's faces turned even darker.

"No," the drunk pirate said. "You've done enough." The group seemed to echo his sentiment, and they slowly dispersed, leaving her tied up with the Marauder to guard her. He eyed her thoughtfully.

"You seem bad," He finally said, speaking slowly with a thick accent. "But your heart is intact. Why do you lie to yourself?" Chatechi bubbled with laughter.

"Don't be ridiculous. I have no heart." Her voice was icy, but the Marauder was unmoved.

"Perhaps." He leaned against a wall. "If it were up to Totoya, you would die for what you did." The Witch ignored him. "Do you fear death, Witch? Do you wonder what comes after the void?" Again, no response. He spoke on anyways. "My people believed that the dead, the _mati_, went and walked in the stars. There they were judged by the _semangats_, the Spirits, on what they had done in life. The Good lived forever, but the bad were cursed for eternity. They were called the _adil_ and the _terkutuk._ So which are you? Are you _adil_ or _terkutuk_?"

She looked at him as well as she could while hanging upside down.

"I am the Queen of the Dead."


	3. Chapter 3: Penance

A day was a long time to be hung upside down. The blood migrates towards gravity, and usually this keeps it flowing equally. But the body isn't meant to be upside down. Upside down, everything is screwed up. The Witch had been upside down for a very long time. All the blood had pooled in her head- her extremities had progressed from a light tingling to total numbness. She'd coughed up more blood a few times, and tried to keep herself occupied by singing more creepy songs as loud as she could, but around the twelfth hour she had fallen silent from the pain and throbbing in her head. Around the sixteenth she had felt her strength ebbing. Now, at the conclusion of an entire day without food or water, she hovered somewhere between life and death.

She heard as if from a distance footsteps on the harsh stone around her. She felt an arm jar her roughly. Then the ropes snapped, and she crumpled to the ground in a flash of pain. She felt dizzy and sick as her head pounded, the blood draining back to her extremities, which now all felt as if they were going to fall off. "On yer feet," commanded a harsh voice, rough hands dragging her to her knees by her hair. It hurt, but the Witch was still too dazed to feel it. "I said, on yer feet!" The voice commanded again, and Chatechi felt herself hauled to her feet only to collapse to her knees again. "Oh, fer heaven's sakes," She heard the voice say exasperatedly. "Rohanee, come pick up this bag o' witchcraft fer me." She felt larger, rougher arms pick her up and sling her over a broad shoulder. Her eyes fluttered open- she could barely see. Black spots danced before her eyes. Gradually, her sight cleared enough to make out blurred images.

She was being carried by the big Marauder, slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Following them was that drunk pirate simpleton with that ridiculous Tricorne on his head. He noticed her return to consciousness. "Well good morning, sunshine," He said, his grin crooked and yellowed. "Enjoy your hangin'? Might not be the last one you'll receive afore the sun goes down t'day." A flash of something resembling intelligence crossed his face. "A waifish, waterlogged witch, washed up in Wraeclast!" He said triumphantly. He jabbed the Marauder with his elbow. "Eh, Rohanee? What do you think, aye?" The Marauder sounded amused.

"You truly never cease to amaze, Bestel." The pirate nodded happily.

"I try, my ebony friend." His gaze switched back to the Witch. "Where was I?"

"Hanging," Chatechi said weakly. Bestel nodded.

"Right. You probably won't survive the day. I know Totoya wants t' kill you fer what yer've done, and I've half a mind to. An' you're the one person I've ever seen that's managed to piss off Nessa. So, ye've most likely got a couple of hours to live at most." He sounded positively happy at the prospect. Chatechi merely took this in stride. This strange land had already tried to kill her; she'd scraped by on that and she'd scrape by on this. Or she would be killed and her body would rise again to consume the flesh of all the living. Perhaps it would even find its way back to Oriath and devour Dominus and all his damned Templars. The Witch grasped to this happy fantasy like a drowning man clings to a rope.

Her happy reverie was interrupted by their arrival at a sort of amphitheatre. A pyre stood at the center of a clearing, with rings of seats surrounding all sides. A very public execution, then. Wonderful. The Marauder, Rohanee, put her down surprisingly gently and stood behind her at a small distance, his hammer half drawn from his back. She had no doubt he could draw his weapon and crush her skull in an instant if she tried anything. She shrugged and face forwards, into the condemning faces of Nessa, the Ranger, that Duelist and the big white fighting man. More grim faces lined the rows, some sporting recent injuries. These ones looked at her murderously. She gave them her best smile.

Nessa banged a large rock against another large rock, her own expression carefully guarded. "People of Lioneye's Watch," She called out, her voice resounding throughout the space. "Wraeclast is a cruel land. But that does not mean we have to be cruel people. Even among us Exiles, a semblance of justice remains. For that purpose we have gathered here to decide the fate of this Witch." Such a pretty speech, Chatechi mused. No wonder people liked her. "Her crime was raising the creature Hillock, whom we had only just defeated, which killed many of our people and destroyed so much of what we have worked so hard to achieve. What shall the sentence be?"

"Death!" Cried the gathered crowd. Nessa raised a hand, silencing them.

"Now we will hear the testimony of the Witch herself." She sliced her hand through the air, silencing protests. "It is our custom." She turned to the Witch, her gaze very sad and tired. "What say you, Witch?" Chatechi raised her head to face the gathered crowd. Her raven hair hung limply around her head, framing her unnaturally pale face in a corona of dank and slimy hair. Her eyes were ice-blue and full of murderous intent.

"Me?" She said quietly. "I have only one thing to say." She fished around in her pocket, looking for something. She found it quickly, closing her fist about it. "I am not a Witch." Nessa looked confused.

"What are you, if not a witch? You raise the dead and conjure fire. What are you?" The Witch smirked, a cruel and wicked gesture.

"I am the Queen of Death." She took the sharp rock- for that was what had been in her pocket, miraculously still there- and sliced it across her forearm, spilling drops of blood almost black on the earth. Immediately, the earth opened where her blood fell, and skeletal hands clawed their way to the surface to reveal full human warriors, still holding the weapons they had died with. Six of them stood equally spaced around her, standing still at the crowd upsurged, hands going for weapons. "Touch me, and my minions will take your life." She stood up, and cursed herself for forgetting one important detail- the Marauder. She spun around in time to see him leap from his post, slamming his hammer into her skeletons and shattering them. He flew among the undead warriors, destroying them all before coming back to her. He wasn't even breathing hard.

Nessa stood from behind the rock she had taken cover behind. "Well, I think a solution has presented itself," She said, sounding oddly satisfied.

The Duelist looked at her as if confused. "What are you thinking, Nessa?"

The woman's eyes gleamed with uncharacteristic cold. "We send her to Merveil."

* * *

"Nessa, you're crazy! This- _Witch_ deserves to die for what she's done!" The Duelist practically shouted at her. They had reconvened in Nessa's tent after she had dismissed the court, leaving the Witch locked in what they called the Hole. It was basically a dirty, slimy hole in the ground with a trapdoor over it. Prison, for them. Nessa sighed irritably, planting her hands on the desk in front of her and giving Totoya her best stare.

"And that's the genius of it. Merveil has blocked our progress ever since Piety shut the overland pass to Telumhan-" she gave a nod to the slim Ranger- "And every time we try to defeat her we can't. Now, that Witch raised Hillock, which-" She raised a finger at another bout of protest- "Was no mean feat by any means. We all know some magic, we've all raised a corpse at some point. Could any of us have lifted that one?" Nobody raised a hand. It was beyond all their skill, and they knew it. "And out there, in the court, she raised skeletons. Armed skeletons. Using nothing but her blood. Would anyone disagree that she is the most powerful thaumaturge we've ever seen?" Again, no one disagreed. "So, in my eyes, she has the best chance at killing that Siren. We send her out, accompanied by Telumhan and Rohanee to make sure she stays on task. If she kills Merveil, all the better for us, and there is some good in her. If she dies making the attempt, what do we have to lose?" She folded her arms, looking from face to face. "Well?"

"Nothing," Said Telumhan, slowly coming to realize the full grasp of Nessa's plan. "Absolutely nothing. It's brilliant, actually." Nessa nodded satisfactorily. Rohanee simply nodded in agreement. They all looked to Totoya, sprawled in a chair with an annoyed look on his face. He huffed, indicating his approval (however reluctant) of the plan with a wave of his hand.

"Alright!" Nessa said in satisfaction. "Let's get her Highness suited up and out to the Siren." They began to walk out, and Nessa's hand caught Tarkleigh's arm, pulling him back. "Tark," she began, her voice suddenly filled with doubt. "You've been at my side the longest. Tell me- Do you think I've made the right choice?" Tarkleigh looked into her eyes, and she took comfort in the steadiness she found there.

"Is any choice the right choice out here?" He asked wearily. "You made the best choice you could, and that's all any of us can hope for."

**Hello there! Just me, the author with some more pronunciations here. Rohanee is pronounced Ro-han-ee, whilst Telumhan is pronounced Tee-loom-han. Totoya is To-toy-ah. Rohanee and Telumhan are, again, real characters of mine, but Totoya is not. At least, not yet. **

**Read and Review, please!**


	4. Chapter 4: Less Than Auspicious

"On yer feet, Witch!" Chatechi squinted up into the sunlight. After her little stunt at the trial, she had fully expected them to kill her. Instead, they'd tossed her in a muddy little slime hole and left her to rot. Rot was better than death- but only by a little. And now, that fool Bestel was back. He had the Marauder drag her out into the sunlight and onto the harsh ground. "Come on, Witch," He ordered, turning around and walking off. Chatechi sighed. She had nothing better to do. Might as well. Bestel led her to a tent and roughly shoved her inside. Telumhan, that blonde Ranger, stood in the corner, her eyes sharp and piercing. She pointed at a table with clothes laid out on it- Cloth, and her two wands.

"Change," Telumhan ordered coldly. Chatechi walked up to the clothes and glanced back at her.

"Are you going to watch me the whole time?" Telumhan stared her down, the answer clear in her expression: They didn't trust her. "Right then." The Witch's skin was unnaturally pale but possessed its own unique, disturbing beauty in the way it flowed evenly across her entire form, never changing shape or texture, as if she were merely a porcelain doll that could be broken with the lightest touch. It was somewhat awkward, knowing that the older woman was keenly watching her for any signs of treachery, but the new clothes felt good. They were cloth, which was the best thing for a magic user to wear, as it conducted and trapped magical energies better than any other material. Accompanying it was a pair of silk gloves and cloth sandals. After she was dressed, the Ranger had a tray of food- cold gruel and cheese- brought in, which she devoured ravenously. By the time she emerged from the tent into the sunlight she felt fresher than she had in days, her stomach full, her robes clean and her wands tucked into her belt. Experimentally, she arched her back like a cat, feeling nerves and muscles pop. Then she grinned ferally.

Tarkleigh and the Marauder flanked her, guiding her towards the gate where Nessa awaited her. Telumhan trailed behind her. People lined the way, silent and staring. In a way their silence was worse than taunting. She stood before the great wooden gate, Nessa looming above her, appearing quite intimidating in armor. "Witch," she began. "By the custom of our people, you have been given one chance to redeem yourself and take your place as an Exile. Your task is to kill the Siren Merveil. The journey is long and perilous, and the enemy strong. You will face the Siren alone, but two of our own will escort you as far as they can. Do you accept this task, or will you die here and now?" Chatechi laughed out loud, shattering the tension. Well that was hardly a choice.

"I accept." She said this haughtily with a straight back, looking as regal as she could manage in her current state. Nessa clapped her hands, signalling guards to open the gate. The coast stretched out beyond, filled with the wrecks of ships and shambling forms of men.

"One last thing, yer highness," came the mocking voice of that idiot pirate. He placed a crown made of thorny branches around her head. The thorns dug into her flesh, drawing slight drops of blackish blood. He grinned cruelly. "A crown for the Queen, aye?" He chuckled, drawing back as the great doors of the gate ground shut. She was on her own now.

Well, mostly on her own. The Ranger and the Marauder stood at a reasonable distance, supposedly for her safety but really to make sure she got to Merveil. Chatechi looked at them, her smile vicious. Her wands were in her hands in a blur of motion. "Well, let's get to it then." She shot off towards the nearest group of undead, cackling as she went with fire dancing on her fingertips. Telumhan decided that it was the eeriest sound she had ever heard- the voice of a young woman, her laughter high and clear and bright like a child's, giggling as she walked among the living corpses and burned them. Even the usually stoic Rohanee shuddered at it.

"_Sihir buruk_," He muttered in his own language before bounding after the Witch, hammer held high. She needed no assistance. Her wands proved enough to slaughter the helpless corpses, and within minutes she had raised her minions. The Witch's escort stayed well back from these, remembering all too well how she had lost control of Hillock. Telumhan drew an arrow, sighting it on the Witch's crowned, bleeding head.

"It would be so easy," she muttered just loud enough for her companion to hear. "I could end the madness before it begins." Her fingers tightened on the shaft of the arrow. She felt a gentle hand on her shoulder, lowering her bow.

"Save your arrows." His voice was soft and rich. The Witch rummaged around a dead body, unknowing of how near to death she stood. Telumhan sighed explosively, lowering her weapon. The Witch would meet her death another day. Chatechi stood, fitting a scavenged pair of claws over her fist. Now this, she liked- sharp and deadly, easy to use. Stab, slice and forget. No complicated swordplay about it. Now, if only she had a subject to test it on… She surveyed the coast and spotted a lone figure, stumbling around. There we go. She ran towards him, the claws on her fist gleaming in the sun. He looked wearily up, and she realized that he wasn't a corpse. He was a man, bald and heavily tattooed. He looked like he had one foot in the grave already. Easy pickings.

Her fist shot forward, the blades heading towards his throat- but he ducked impossibly fast, spinning his leg in a kick and knocking her to the ground. He was on her in an instant, yellow teeth bared in a feral grin. "Stupid, stupid, stupid," he sang mockingly, and gave a sharp whistle. "One little girl, out on her own! And looking so tasty, too… Hehehe…" His voice was rough and jagged, and he spoke with a lilting tone that jumped from octave to octave as he spoke each syllable. He was insane. There was no doubt about it. She struggled under him, but to no avail. "I'm going to eat you!" He cackled, and she felt his hot breath on her neck. She closed her eyes, sinking into despair. This was it. What an inglorious death- eaten by a cannibal within an hour of leaving.

Something hot and liquid spattered on her face, and she felt the man crumple against her. She flailed under him, gasping for breath. Then the body was tossed clear, and she saw the Marauder looking at her with an amused expression. Her undead minions milled about, having finally and unhelpfully caught up with her. An arrow sprouted from the cannibal's forehead. It was his blood on her face. The Ranger stood at a distance, another arrow nocked on her bow. A blank stare passed between the two women. Finally, the Witch gave the slightest of nods to the Ranger. She didn't react.

"Well, that wasn't so bad," Chatechi said, climbing back to her feet and dusting off her robes. "Is that the worst this place has to throw at me?"

It is well known that the very act of saying such a statement immediately guarantees that the statement will instantly be refuted. "What could possibly go wrong?" For instance, is immediately followed by something going horribly wrong. And so, as the Witch said this statement, Wraeclast concocted something to go horribly wrong. And it came, in the form of a horde of Cannibals cresting the nearby hill. There were easily dozens, perhaps a hundred of the savages, beating their chests and yelling in a blood frenzy. They poured down the hill in a deluge of sharp teeth and blades.

The three stood stock-still for a moment, staring at the crowd in horror.

"Well, shit."

* * *

_Wraeclast, 2 Years Ago_

She'd done it. They had said that it couldn't be done, but she'd done it. She'd fought her way past hordes of undead and cannibals. Granted, Piety of Theopolis had sealed the way into the Forest with some sort of barrier, but the Ranger remained determined. After consulting a map, she'd deemed that the best way forward was to cut around the barrier via the Prison.

The Prison proved to be a slaughterhouse. Skeletons whose bones withered under her arrows, necromancers who fell under her knives. She laughed giddily, feeling invincible. What was it that Tarkleigh had warned her about before she'd left- some sort of Warden in the Prison? Well, if he was as dilapidated as his minions, he should be easy pickings. It was this assumption that she held as she ascended to the final level. It was dark. Telumhan frowned. The rest of the prison was mildly well lit due to windows and such, but the Warden's office was pitch black. She shrugged and stepped inside.

"Welcome!" Boomed a deep voice, and an iron chain shot out from the darkness, lashing around her and binding her tightly. "We're going to have lots of fun, you and me." The last thing she remembered was his terrible face looming over her in the darkness before her memory failed her.


End file.
